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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652982">The Dog Days Are Over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAKeepsake/pseuds/JustAKeepsake'>JustAKeepsake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Warlock Dowling - Comedy of Errors [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Characters misunderstanding the canon for reasons of comedy, Stand Up, Un-carefully un-curated mixing of book and TV canon, Warlock as John Mulaney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:22:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652982</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAKeepsake/pseuds/JustAKeepsake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no way the architect of the Fall of Man was my primary care giver. No. That is ludicrous. </p><p>That is NOT what I am saying. That is not even a thought I am going to entertain, BUT, and here is the clincher, my childhood was weird. Weird in a imprecise sort of way that definitely involves a smidgeon of the occult.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Warlock Dowling - Comedy of Errors [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Dog Days Are Over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was so surprised that people were even interested in the first part of this and I found I just wanted to just keep going!</p><p>I haven’t got a set idea about how Warlock is John Mulaney-ing but in my head each of these is a different (short) ‘show’</p><p>In the book Nanny Ashtoreth has a dog called Rover that Warlock is scared of and I always assumed that this was intentional to stop him from claiming/naming his hellhound. I like the idea that either Crowley or Aziraphale put the slightest bit of forethought into raising Warlock, but all other instances of canon seem to suggest otherwise…</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I have mentioned before that I think my Nanny was the devil, and again I do want to clarify here, this is not a slight against her character. This is not because she treated me horribly, quite the opposite actually. I think she was actually the devil. Or you know a witch or something. </p><p>I don’t think my Nanny was Satan or Lucifer or Beelzebub anyone important like that, I really can’t picture Lucifer saying “hmm I had a good old go with tempting Eve. That business with the apple when really well, what next? Oh, I know, I need to look after some American brat for half a decade and confuse the hell out him just enough that he is capable of functioning as an adult but only barely, and just for a pinch of fun I’ll give him just enough issues that every therapist thinks he’s talking solely in hypotheticals.” </p><p>There is no way the architect of the Fall of Man was my primary care giver. No. That is ludicrous. </p><p>That is NOT what I am saying. That is not even a thought I am going to entertain, BUT, and here is the clincher, my childhood was weird. Weird in a imprecise sort of way that definitely involves a smidgeon of the occult. </p><p>So, was my Nanny Satan? No of course not. That my friends would be beyond ridiculous.</p><p>Was she a Satanist? In all likelihood no. But at the time I do not think to ask. So that’s on me.</p><p>Was she a completely sane and reasonable human individual? Yes of course. She was just a strict Scottish Nanny who raised me with a clear understanding that I was going to rule the armies of the damned when the time was right. Possibly a metaphor, again at the time I did not ask. I said yes Nanny, I will do that Nanny.</p><p>Was Nanny a responsible adult who should been left in charge of an impressionable infant? Sorry Nanny but you lost my vote on this one, hard no. I loved that woman to pieces but Christ on a cracker she did not have a grasp of what life skills a pre-schooler needs to have. I don’t think she had a state approved developmental plan for me that’s for sure.</p><p>Honestly, I would have paid any amount of money to see how her interview went down when she was hired. Whatever she did to convince my parents to hire her was nothing short of a miracle either that or she was the only person who showed up on the day. Potato potato. </p><p>My guess is that they accidentally found her at the satanic nunnery. Oh yeah, sorry to spring that on anyone who wasn’t aware, I was born in a satanic nunnery, old hat, yesterday’s news. </p><p>Maybe she was trying to jack the car while my mother was occupied, you know, birthing a whole human and she wasn’t quick enough so just hid in the backseat, like “No, I’m an approved Nanny the nuns sent me, this was all arranged dearie, don’t you remember?” She was a very imposing and convincing woman. I could believe that my mother had baby brain at the time and just accepted it.</p><p>Nah, that can’t be right, Nanny would never get caught attempting to jack a car, she’s too good for that. But it makes a weird amount of sense, does it? Satanic nuns, demonic Nanny, baby named Warlock. Stop me if I’m going too fast for you to keep up.</p><p>Nanny had this terrifying dog called Rover, original I know, with huge dark eyes that I swear were red half the time, but I was just 4 years old and terrified of dogs. My parents tried to get me a dog just before I went to middle school, maybe when I was about nine or ten? I reckon my Dad thought it would teach me responsibility and occupy me a bit. </p><p>I don’t know if you had made this assumption considering my graceful and waiflike physique, but I was not the most athletic child, so me and my Dad resolutely, did not bond over sports. He asked what kind of dog I wanted and I just screamed. I screamed and I cried and I wailed, I would’ve probably run away but I suppose I wanted to be sure that he got the message. I was completely petrified of dogs basically until last year when I finished my masters. That makes it by my estimate over 20 years.</p><p>I met my best friend at university, the second time mind you. I couldn’t get enough of signing myself over to a lifetime of destitution from my undergrad so I went back for more. Anyways I met this guy, Adam, at university in London and he is fantastic. He’s one of those people where the world seems to move around him. I think he’s what my parents wanted me to be like. He’s got one of those go with the flow sort of auras where he expects everything to work out an then it just does. It’s like he lucks into everything, but not in an obnoxious way, he’s effortlessly nonchalant about being good at basically everything.  </p><p>For a pretty long time I has no idea if I was completely in love with him or if I wanted to be him, and now I’ve decided it falls somewhere in between the two. I’m going to leave it there I think, he’s the English Lit creative type, so I’ll stop before the rest of this show is me rambling on and on and waxing lyrical about how cool he is. That was a bit deep wasn’t it, who even needs therapy, I’ll just vomit out all of my feelings and insecurities to a room full of strangers, that’s got to be more efficient at least.</p><p>Right so the dog thing, Adam has this really close nit group of friends that all grew up together somewhere in Oxford, and when he’s telling these anecdotes Adam uses really cutesy nicknames for all his buddies, and there is Brian, Wensleydale, Pepper and Dog. Right, so and I’m here thinking that the five of them were the only kids in the arse end of nowhere village so they had themselves a little gang. </p><p>What actually turns out is that when all his friends come to visit him there are three actual people and one canine, called Dog. </p><p>Seems obvious now doesn’t it?! </p><p>Well how was I supposed to know?! </p><p>I spend my formative years running in fear from some enormous drooling beast, it’s not really surprising that I’m not too keen on interacting with aggressive animals.</p><p>I should disclose that I was taught from an early age, that as I walk my way through the highways and byways of life’s rich and fulsome path, to show love and reverence for all living things, but let me tell you that did not extend to dogs.</p><p>There we are, waiting outside the tube station for his friends to show up and I take one look at this dog and I faint. I keel right over and faint like some sort of agitated Victorian maiden. On the corner of the street, in the middle of the day. </p><p>When I come too Adam is just hovering over me with this sort of amused look like ‘what did you expect?’. But truth be told, I don’t think that is completely on me, what sort of lunatic names their dog Dog?</p><p>So here is the weird part, this is not just a meandering tale which features me doing something embarrassing. Don’t get me wrong, it is definitely all of those things but I haven’t got to the weird part yet because if you know me at all you will know that there is always a weird part. So here is the weird part, or at least this is where I believe the weird part started.</p><p>Adam then helps we up from the ground, and I am still shaking because the dog is now at eye level with me and I’m less than a foot away from its teeth and its claws and its slobbery mouth and its beady little eyes and just as Adam helps me up there is this weird tingle. Like when you bang that funny bit of your elbow and it makes your teeth feel like TV static. I’m not mental that’s a thing, when you get home, I dare you, bang your elbow on the corner of a cabinet and you’ll see what I’m talking about. </p><p>Right, so the tingle. I get this full body staticky feeling and just like that, poof, gone. My debilitating fear of dogs is no more, like it’s sucked right out me. </p><p>Then Adam brushes me off because I managed to throw myself to the ground in a massive pile of trash, about as close as you can get without literally climbing in a dumpster. London is filthy, it’s not a secret. He turns to his little posse and tell them I used to be scared of dogs. Then he grins at me and tells me who is who. </p><p>How. On. Earth. Did he know that? And then there are no follow up questions from his friends?!</p><p>Here are the facts in order, I faint at the sight of a dog, a tiny dog by the way, let the record forever show that I passed out at a dog which would not even generously be considered a medium sized pooch, then Adam tells his friends that I was scared of dogs, but I’m not anymore? What?</p><p>And then I just sort of wander around after them for the rest of the afternoon, but I couldn’t tell you want happened, I’m just dumbstruck wandering around as they sightsee and chat about what’s new.</p><p>We make a detour to this old library or something, in Soho, and I just sit on one of the sofas while they talk to the guy who runs it. I have no idea why we are here or what we are doing or how long we were there for. It was a library so logically I guess Adam was after something obscure for his thesis, but this is not really important, he clearly knows what he needs and spends ages talking to the old guy at the desk. </p><p>The whole time I am just been sat in this old plush arm chair with the dog in my lap for what could been 20 minutes or could’ve been hours. </p><p>Then I start to hyperventilate, just out of habit more than anything else at this point I guess, except there is the heavy feeling of calm, like then you get to just the right level of drunk and everything is a little bit slower. And the dog is still asleep, it clearly doesn’t care. I thought dogs were supposed to have a profound sixth sense and go get help when people are in crisis. Clearly not this dog, it did not seem to be affected by me trying to work though by my deepest most terrifying phobias in public, or maybe the lack of them at this point, it was a very strange day.</p><p>I think the guy who ran the shop saw me having a panic attack and came over to help calm down and he seemed pretty familiar but to be honest at that point I was so exhausted I do not have any real assurance that the time inside that library wasn’t just a hallucination. </p><p>I think I remember him telling me not to be afraid and to calm down as if telling anyone to calm down has actually ever helped them the calm down. And he got me to just keep gently stroking the dog and wasn’t it so soothing, and didn’t I feel completely safe and that I should rest my eyes and sleep and dream of whatever I liked best. </p><p>I woke up the next day at Adam’s place because my humiliating experiences apparently have the need to be as drawn out as possible and he said that I hadn’t woken up from the trip to the shop so they just came back to his place. </p><p>Not sure if this one has a clear moral but now, I am completely unphased by dogs, I think it was some sort of shock submersion treatment where I can no longer process the sheer levels of fear, but it worked so take from that what you will. Perhaps I was so busy trying to process that Adam was holding my hand it was a complete reset to my brain systems, Now you tell me is that profound or utterly pathetic?</p><p>I went to Uni in London and London is nice, although it seems like there are so many things there seems to be tailor made to make your life worse, like the traffic or the buses or the crime or the tube or the prices or the stupid Boris bikes. I hope the people responsible for all of these are out there suffering with the rest of us. Or that they live in London. That would serve them right.</p><p>When I first got here, I used to use those pay by the hour bikes, their called Boris Bikes or Santander cycles? Depending on the government or the sponsor. I thought these things would save me a fortune, but after a couple of weeks it is not worth the effort. You have to make sure there is a spot to put them back and if there isn’t space you have to find another docking station. </p><p>Which always happens, one, when it is raining which it does all of the time here and two, when you are already running late. So, surprise surprise it did not save me any time or any money. And if there is one thing that screams tourist in London it is an American on a rented bike.</p><p>Now I am pretty good on a bike, my favourite toy as a kid was a ridiculous bright yellow tricycle. I used to pedal around and around the house, and I do mean around the outside of the house. </p><p>Nanny always tried to get me to ride it inside and I think it was because she was cold, I have never met anyone with worse circulation, her hands were always freezing. She was poker thin so I expect her thought process was that if she could get me to use it inside then it would be a bonus bit of mischief and she could watch me from somewhere with central heating. </p><p>But all the carpets in the house were this really thick plush shag with a bouncy underlay, the kind of thing now that I find really exciting, like now I’m just at that age where I’m old enough to tip over from going out and drinking to excess and into interior decoration and apartment storage space as the height of excitement.</p><p>Anyways, I did not cycle in the house because the carpet and the rug situation meant it was like trying to pedal through treacle. So, I used use to ride this tricycle round and round the house and we had this turning circle with a fountain in the middle and I used to go around and around that too and then I got a bike when I was too big for the tricycle and I would ride that round the house and round the fountain. The point is I’ve always been good on my bike so for a number of reasons the following is not my fault.</p><p>It was less than a month after I bought myself a bicycle, not new mind you, new to me but revamped. And I did try my best to keep this bike in pristine condition, and then not even one month after having it I got hit by a car. </p><p>This guy speeds out of nowhere and crashes right into me, I go flying, he gets out, he’s mad at me for some reason I cannot comprehend. I mean, I was waiting at traffic lights. Stationary. And he’s there grumbling about the risks of the road and bikes and cyclists and handing out freebies and how he was in a rush. </p><p>To this day I have never seen anyone move the way this arsehole did, it’s like he was about to trip his own feet with every step, at first I thought he was drunk but it wasn’t really like that. It was like his head and his feet were the opposite ends of a slinky and the middle section was trying to compensate for it.</p><p>So, he hits me with his car and I’m there lying in the road and he gets out and starts stroking the bonnet of his car, which is totally normal behaviour apparently for the responsible party of a car accident. Apparently, he needn’t because there was not a scratch on it. </p><p>Now I do not claim to know anything about cars but this was an old car, and I don’t mean a lemon or a banger. It was a Vintage Car. </p><p>You know one of those with the spare tyre stuck on the outside and the swoopy bits over the front wheels.  I would’ve thought that if you have a clearly expensive and unique car, you’d be a bit more careful about crashing into other road users. But that’s just me, and I don’t drive so what do I know. </p><p>So, after he is done fondling his car, I guess he remembers that I’m there but then he basically ignores me. He picks up my bike hands it to me and vanishes. No exchange of details, nothing, he just jumps back in his car and vanishes down the street.</p><p>So my question is this, if you are going to commit a hit and run, why bother stopping at all? He was clearly in a rush, like he said.</p><p>I’m left sitting in the road, holding my bike which I am expecting to be in BAD shape considering that I am pretty banged up, nothing broken but everything grazed. Jeans ripped, or should I say ripped jeans less artfully ripped and more aggressively distressed on the asphalt and I’m covered in scratches but my bike did not have a mark on it. </p><p>I mean I got this bike second hand so it had a bit of rust here and there and then suddenly not a scratch on it, I guess I took the brunt of the crash which maybe explains why there wasn’t a dent in his hood. At any rate I’m less expensive to get fixed up, at least in this country. </p><p>I don’t know why every story I end up sharing features me being brained or concussed. I mean, I don’t think I have a particularly overactive imagination, maybe I do. Maybe everything I think is normal brain function is wildly at one end of a scale, I could not tell whether it is at the good end. But it is not a surprise to learn at this point that my base line for normal is NOT in the usual place. </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would love to know head cannons for Warlock’s issues™ and bits of childhood that he would have repressed or is now forced to process</p><p>Let me know if there is anything you want to see in future ‘shows’</p><p>Comment and Kudos if you like!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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